


Commitment

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Partners [1]
Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Haircuts, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2137341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Cut my hair.' Sakuraba lifts his gaze, and there’s no hesitation in his eyes at all. 'I want it gone.'" Sakuraba commits to his new goals, and Takami helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commitment

The knock at the door is so late at night that at first Takami thinks it must be a mistake. He has ice packs laid over his legs, and in the first moment of confusion he considers getting up, realizes how much effort it will take, and decides to wait and see if the visitor realizes his mistake and leaves. But then there’s a second knock, just as clear and distinct as the first, and Takami allows himself a faint sigh of resignation before he slides the packs to the side and gets to his feet to answer the door.

It is not who he is expecting. He wasn’t expecting anyone, really, but in the short list of possibilities he’s composed by the time he gets the door open Sakuraba is nowhere near the top. But that’s who it is. The other boy is standing in front of his door with a bag in his hand and one arm angled awkwardly in front of his chest, slouching like he’s considering leaving before Takami says anything.

“Oh.” Takami blinks. Sakuraba’s never been over to his house before. He didn’t know the other boy even knew where he lived. “Hey, Sakuraba.”

Sakuraba looks up, blinks at him like he’s startled to see Takami answering the door of his own house. “Hey.” His voice shakes, even just on the one word, and for a moment his entire expression goes soft with panic and Takami thinks he might be about to turn and just leave. He can actually see the determination surge up in Sakuraba, the focus steady his mouth into a frown of intention and calm his gaze into resolution in the moment before the blond extends the bag in his hands, drops his gaze to the floor, and blurts, “Will you cut my hair?”

For a minute Takami is entirely lost. He hears the words, even understands their meaning, but it’s so distant from anything he ever expected Sakuraba to say that he can’t get traction on the question. “Sorry, what?”

“Cut my hair.” Sakuraba lifts his gaze, and there’s no hesitation in his eyes at all. “I want it gone.”

Takami’s eyes jump to Sakuraba’s hair, the gold waves that have brought him all the fame Takami’s own effort has never achieved. “Why?”

Sakuraba’s chin comes up higher. His shoulders square into deliberation, his eyes go cool and firm, and for a moment his face looks different, stronger and older and steadier than Takami has ever seen him before. “Because I want to play football.”

It shouldn’t have that much meaning. The words themselves would be casual if not for the almost-pain under Sakuraba’s voice, the sound of resignation to all manner of sacrifice without any guarantee of success at the end of it. Takami knows exactly how good of a player Sakuraba is, knows that without his fame as a model he doesn’t have the skill to be anything like a star. The sound of those words in the other boy’s mouth says that Sakuraba knows that too, that he is willing to cast aside the certain success of his current trajectory for the likely failure of a true attempt at being an athlete.

“Why me?” Takami asks, still caught somewhere between shock and admiration for the other boy’s decision.

Sakuraba swallows. For a moment his cheeks go dark with a blush, but when he speaks his voice is level in spite of the self-consciousness turning his gaze fragile. “Because it’s for you.”

Takami draws back, stumbles a half-step back into the house in physical rejection of that weight, but Sakuraba keeps talking too fast for him to interrupt. “I want it too. I’ve wanted it for a while. No one takes me seriously like this, no one will let me take  _myself_  seriously. But it was you that decided me.” He takes a breath, lets it out slowly. He looks down again, his blush is getting darker, but Takami is more relieved than otherwise that Sakuraba isn’t watching his own expression. “I want to be the partner you need.”

Takami blinks. Then he reaches out, takes the bag from Sakuraba’s still-outstretched hand, and steps back out of the doorway to let the other boy come in. He turns away as soon as the door is shut, leads the way down the hallway and hopes Sakuraba will follow. He’s not sure he can trust his voice, not when he’s flushed hot with pleasure and embarrassment both. Neither of them speak again until Takami pushes the door to the bathroom open for Sakuraba.

“Stay here for a minute,” he says without making eye contact. “I’ll get you a chair so you can sit.”

Sakuraba shuffles past him, briefly close enough that his body heat is radiant against Takami’s skin. Then he’s past, and Takami is heading back to his bedroom to grab the chair in front of his desk. The bag proves to have clippers in it, still in the box from whatever store Sakuraba went to before coming here; Takami hesitates over that, touches the edges of the box while his whole body tingles with awareness of what he’s about to do. Then he drops the box back into the bag, picks up the chair with his free hand, and comes back to where Sakuraba is waiting.

“Here you go.” He slides the chair into position, draws the box out of the bag so he can start working it open. Sakuraba moves in his periphery to sit, sighs and runs a hand through his hair to push it back off his forehead. Takami glances up into the mirror, catches the reflection of Sakuraba’s gaze. If there were any shadow of uncertainty in the other boy’s eyes he would stop. It would take a word, a breath from Sakuraba and Takami would refuse. But there’s not even a moment of hesitation, just a calm certainty that Takami’s never seen in Sakuraba’s face before that sweeps away the last tremble of nerves from Takami’s hands.

“You might want to take your shirt off,” he points out as he reaches for the lightswitch to cast them both in bright fluorescent illumination. “So you can keep it relatively clean for after.”

“Ah, yeah.” Sakuraba leans forward, starts to strip his shirt up off over his head. “Sorry, I didn’t think about that. Uh. Can I take a shower here too, before I go home?”

“Sure.” Takami reaches around Sakuraba to plug in the clippers, turns them on and off just to get a sense for the motion. “How short do you want it?”

“Oh.” Sakuraba leans forward, shuffles through the various attachments still in the box. Takami watches his shoulders, still skinnier than they ought to be but getting stronger, showing definition that was lacking just a few months ago. He’s smiling without thinking about it when Sakuraba holds up his selection. “Here. This one.”

Takami takes the attachment from the other boy’s fingers, hesitates over it for a moment. “It’s going to be short, Sakuraba.  _Very_  short.”

The other boy leans back into the chair, straightens his head and fingercombs his hair back from his face. It falls over his features as soon as he’s pushed it back, but Takami saw the expression on his face before it was obscured, is turning the razor on even before Sakuraba says, “I know.”

Takami doesn’t pause. It’s clear Sakuraba isn’t going to stop him at this point, and he figures it’s better to act quickly before he has time to lose his nerve himself. He slides his hand against Sakuraba’s head, draws the other boy’s hair back so he can see what he’s doing, and presses the razor in to draw in the wake of his hand.

Golden hair falls loose under his fingers, scatters across Sakuraba’s shoulders and onto the floor. Takami takes a deep breath, pulls back another lock to repeat the process. His hand is starting to shake, maybe just from the now unavoidable reality of what he’s doing and maybe just because he can feel the tiny movements of Sakuraba’s head under his touch, the shift of his breathing and the angle of his head. When he glances back up into the mirror Sakuraba has shut his eyes, though his expression still looks perfectly calm, doesn’t falter even as his hair falls away to drift down into his lap and to the floor under Takami’s feet.

Neither of them speak. Takami’s hands are steady enough to do the relatively simple work, even if his breathing is coming unnecessarily fast and his face is flushed with self-consciousness. He can see Sakuraba’s breathing holding steady, speaking more to his determination than anything else has. He doesn’t move at all except to tip his head farther forward so Takami can run the clippers up over the back of his neck, clear away the other boy’s hair from the translucent-pale skin between his shoulders. He might be a statue but for the movement of his breath in his shoulders, the flutter of pulse in his throat Takami can just see when Sakuraba turns his head sideways to give him better access to the bottom of his hairline.

The whole process takes longer than Takami expects; even once the majority of Sakuraba’s hair is sheared away, it takes twice as long again for him to go over the whole thing properly, slow and careful around Sakuraba’s ears and running his fingers in the wake of the clippers to check the length. Finally he lets out a breath, lifts his hands, and turns the clippers off. The lack of sound presses in on his ears for a moment, his fingers tingle with the anticipation of vibration before he sets the clippers aside and can flex the expectation out of them.

“Okay.” His voice is oddly high, strained with the heat of nerves and adrenaline turning his skin warm and pink. “There you go.”

Sakuraba opens his eyes, turns his chin up to observe himself in the mirror. Takami looks up at the reflection, catches Sakuraba’s gaze for a moment. His eyes look different freed from the cover of his hair; they seem bigger, darker. Takami can see the shadow of his eyelashes properly, now, without the curtain of gold in front of his face. His jawline looks stronger too, older and broader and more defined. Takami can just make out the shadow of stubble coming in along Sakuraba’s chin, like he’s gained years with the loss of his hair.

“Wow,” Takami says, and Sakuraba starts to grin. For a moment he still looks like a stranger; then the pleasure touches his eyes warm, and Takami blinks, and it’s Sakuraba facing him in the mirror again. When he brushes his hand over the other boy’s head the short strands are soft against his palm. “It looks good.”

“You think so?” Sakuraba reaches up, the gesture the same familiar shove over hair that’s no longer there. For a minute his fingers catch on Takami’s, warm and electric; then the other boy pulls his hand back, and Sakuraba drops his into his lap, looks down so Takami can barely see the edge of his smile past the heat rising in his cheeks. Then he clears his throat, lifts his head again, and Takami is struck again by the brief uncanny not-quite-familiarity of his changed appearance.

“Thanks.” When he stands up he sheds gold hair onto the floor even before he moves to brush his jeans somewhat clean. There’s strands clinging to his shoulders too; Takami sweeps them away before he thinks through the actual process of dragging his hand across Sakuraba’s skin. There’s a tingle of sensation that jolts up his fingers and into his arm, electrifying even before he pulls his hand away, and Sakuraba makes a sound, a hum of pleased satisfaction in the moment before he goes still and silent.

They’re both perfectly still for a minute, Takami’s hand frozen just off Sakuraba’s shoulder and the other boy’s head tipped down so Takami can’t make out his expression even when he glances at the mirror in an attempt to garner more information.

“I should take a shower,” Sakuraba finally says. His voice is shaking, now, trembling with the emotion Takami kept expecting earlier and failing to catch. Takami draws his hand back entirely, leans back until there’s a safe distance between his body and the pale skin over Sakuraba’s shoulders, the temptation of the fine hairs at the very back of his neck.

“Yeah.” Takami moves sideways to the doorway, doesn’t turn back around until he’s in the doorway. Sakuraba is watching him when he looks back, his eyes dark and endless now that they’re exposed to the light. They stare at each other for a moment; Sakuraba looks uncertain, frightened and edgy in spite of the sudden maturity his short hair gives him. Then Takami smiles, the tentative expression like a offering on his lips, and Sakuraba’s whole face drops into delight like sunshine bursting out over his features.

“Use the towel behind you,” Takami says, backing out into the hallway. “And help yourself to anything in the shower, it’s fine.”

“Okay.” Sakuraba nods, his mouth still curved into an irrepressible smile. “Thanks. Takami.”

Takami reaches for the handle of the bathroom, hesitates with his fingers against the metal. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say for what, and Sakuraba doesn’t ask as Takami eases the door shut.


End file.
